


Monochrome Rainbow

by Himitsu_Uragiri



Series: Resonance of a Glass Prism [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Art School, Color Blindness, M/M, MidoTaka Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himitsu_Uragiri/pseuds/Himitsu_Uragiri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A painter that could no longer paint.<br/>A boy that saw beauty in everything in his colourless world. </p>
<p>All it took was a chance encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monochrome Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> MidoTaka Week Day 4 : Fate

**“Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.” – Plutarch**

 

They called him a prodigy. He conceitedly perceived himself as nothing less. From the first day Midorima held a paint brush that felt awkwardly long in his small hand, his world began to shift from its mechanical orbit. He was gifted. People from all walks of life made it clear from their endless praises.

It wasn’t just the graceful technique he possessed, nor the texture, the object of focus and the way he magnificently captured the essence of a scene with his young eyes. His paintings were abstract. Midorima’s affinity for colours reflected a kaleidoscope of sentiments. While viewing his artwork, you would feel as though you were transported into the brilliant realm between the expensive frames. It was as though you were there, smelling the fresh morning air, feeling the cool breeze with the scent of daffodils tickling your sensitive nose and seeing your reflection in the crystalline dewdrops. The painting was better than reality. You could admire it for hours.

Showered by gilded approbations, it was inevitable that Midorima grew with pride over his exceptional ability to breathe life into an immobile picture. As his popularity escalated, so did his pride. Driven by his own grand aspirations for perfection, Midorima took to meticulously taping the fingers of his left hand, his life. Many were unable to comprehend his eccentric behavior while others mocked what they could not accept and deemed weird. As was most human nature; to consider their insignificant existence large enough to lay down unwritten rules of proper societal conduct.

Ostracized by people due to his taciturn and aberrant nature, Midorima never learned the art of communication. He did not have friends, only the ebb and flow of vaguely familiar faces and new ones at every exhibition, competition or fair. Only his parents remained a constant, but even they were usually at a very important meeting, a conference overseas or simply engaged in a new lucrative project.

Deprived of the intricate threads that linked one life to another, he did not interact with people more than what was necessary. It was the same for the people who came to see him. Nothing beyond sugar coated words of favor, requests, scathing criticism and obligatory information left the lips of any one person.

Distanced from the judgmental eyes of society, young Midorima found it easier to paint. In the tranquil silence of the evening devoid of societal constraints, he would unravel the taping on his left hand and revel in the feel of soft strokes upon the empty canvas, filling the white space with colours that sang a story of their own.

Years went by, Midorima painted picture after picture following the impression his eyes witnessed at heightened moments. But as all deftly sculpted fountains would one day run dry and left to abandonment and decay, he too became unable to paint. What he once loved and enjoyed became a tedious task.

 

“The exhibition is in three months. Everyone in the art department has high hopes and expectations from you. If everything goes well, you’ll be able to take your career to the next step and enter the international market.” The aged man before him spoke in a serious tenor. “Well then, I have other matters to attend to. Do your best.”

Words of encouragement delivered as a grave epitaph.

Midorima understood the man invested a gracious amount of money and time on the upcoming exhibition and how he expected the reward for his efforts doubled. And thus all the strained obligations weighted heavily upon his shoulders, the star of the show. His artwork alone would be exclusively displayed at the fancy exhibition.

“I …” The hesitant undertone of his voice attracted the attention of dull cataract eyes like a bloodhound with an intensity that almost burned.

“I thank you for your efforts thus far.”

“You’re welcome, Midorima.”

Keeping his stiff shoulders squared, he escorted the wise man out the door and bid him good bye. He breathed out a long sigh. A melancholy sound.

With a heavy heart, he strode towards the canvas propped up beside the window and stared at the unblemished white landscape. He couldn’t say it.

_I can’t paint._

From dawn to dusk, Midorima searched for something awe inspiring in every nook and cranny. A view of the bustling city from atop a hill. The listless sun playing hide and seek between high rise buildings. The glimmer of the pond patterned by the ripples of ducks. Unfortunately, he returned every time to his private work room in the university with empty musings.

It was on such an uninspiring and frustrating afternoon that _he_ whirled across the flat surface of his solitude, churning everything into a maelstrom of irregularity.

Midorima had been granted his own work room in a quiet corner of the university where not many wandered over to, a privilege reserved for him at his admittance into the school. Thus it came as a surprise when someone unceremoniously opened the door to his drab world. Headphones over his ears and humming in tune to the beats of a song he was unfamiliar with, a second seemed to stretch as their eyes met. He had never seen such curious silver irises before.

“Oh, I didn’t think anyone would be here,” the black haired boy said casually, a sheepish smile upon his pink lips.

“What are you doing here?” Midorima snapped with a glare once the long second had come to pass.

“Looking for a quiet place to nap,” the boy replied all too cheerily.

“Go home.”

“But I have class in an hour.”

“Find another room!”

“But I like this room. It has a nice view out the window. Airy too.”

Like an oversized cat, the boy happily slinked past him with brazen assurance.

“Y-you! What do you think you’re doing?” A visible vein throbbed against Midorima’s temple.

Undeterred by his obvious ire, the boy carelessly dumped his bag by his feet and fluidly slumped onto the table next to the window.

“It’s not _you_. My name’s Takao Kazunari. What’s yours?” The boy known as Takao asked.

“I do not wish to associate myself with uncivil brats such as yourself.”

The biting remark was delivered without a second thought. Now the boy would leave, insulted, angry and never come again, as everyone did. He would be able to resume his vapid thoughts. But then, Takao did something unexpected. He laughed. A genuine laugh, unlike the forced choked out sounds he was inured to in the presence of others he recently met. It was a loud and free sound that somehow thrilled him.

“You’re funny. Maybe I should call you Joker-san?”

“Absolutely not! My name is Midorima Shintarou.” He huffed indignantly.

Takao propped his chin up on his palm and hummed, his eyelids lowered languorously followed by a yawn.

“Hm that’s too long to remember.”

The temporary spell that had been cast upon Midorima by the music of his laugh broke. The crude boy that had so discourteously barged into his life was nothing more than a fool that could not even remember a name.

“Enough of this ridiculous charade. I will not entertain your silly games.”

“Aww, Shin-chan loosen up a bit. You talk like an old man.”

“Wh-what did you call me?”

The abrupt and ridiculously childish version of his name left him flabbergasted, gaping unattractively in disbelief like a fish out of water. He was rewarded with a hearty laugh from the black haired boy, his silver eyes dancing with mirth. The nerve of him!

“Cute isn’t it?”

“Y-you!” He bristled, his glare almost murderous.

“Oh well, look at the time. I should get going now.”

With one last longing glance out the window, Takao grabbed his previously abandoned bag and skipped towards the door. One foot out the door, he tilted his head back and smiled.

“It was nice talking to you, Shin-chan. See ya!”

The door slide close quietly, an anticlimactic end to a confusing afternoon.

One day moved idly into another until a month had been ticked off the calendar. Midorima continued his daily struggle where the stagnancy of his inspiration settled like stubborn mold in the form of an empty canvas. The boy, Takao, had also wandered into his domain on many occasions, often in the afternoon. Midorima discovered he had an overtly amiable nature and it was best to ignore his antics. He had met many people before but none as blatantly ignorant of his personal space as Takao. Whenever he came, he would make himself right at home despite Midorima’s protests. And his spiteful words were like water off a ducks back just as no amount of glaring would dissuade the boy from his frequent visits. His enthusiasm was impervious. Even his silence was flimsy and craved the dislocation of noise; be it in the form of a hum or simply fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. The only time he could tolerance his irksome presence was when Takao fell asleep, lulled by the lethargic weather.

 

“You’re thinking too much. Just paint. I think all of your artworks are great,” Takao said one afternoon, eyeing some of his older paintings with an expression akin to admiration.

“Hmph. This is why you are a fool. It is not as simple as that.”

“Then make it simple.”

“Your opinions are not valid.”

“If you say so Shin-chan,” he shrugged and laughed. “But you know … the view outside this window is amazing. I bet it’ll be even better when the cherry blossoms have fully bloomed.”

Midorima squinted at the silhouette seated by the edge of the window, his face a portrait of serenity. He looked past the sheer curtains billowing gently in the wind, at the bright and calming blue firmament where a single bird soared on the thermals in the distance. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but it seemed as though Takao was mesmerized by the run off the mill view. They were looking at the same scene at the same time, and yet, Takao saw something completely different. Something wonderful.

Without a word, he turned back to his work. Takao left shortly after for class.

_What did he see?_

Despite himself, Takao’s impetuous words echoed in his mind night and day. A whisper that came with the wind during his excursions. Takao had always enjoyed the view outside the window. But he could never see it; the thing that put such a serene smile on his face.

After his final class, Midorima walked the short distance home under a rich orange sky dotted by early stars peeping from behind luminescent clouds that drifted idly in the late sky. It was a view he saw every day, a view he never noticed. And thus he stopped to admire the simple evening of an unproductive day.

By night, in the arms of Morpheus, ripples of orange, pink and ember glowed across the barren plains of his dreams; a spectacular aurora borealis. The following morning he awoke before his alarm clock set off. Mechanically, he went through his morning rituals and hurried to college.

Once settled comfortably in his work room, Midorima picked up a dusty palette and unwound the taping on his fingers. And then, he painted.

When Takao arrived that afternoon, the cheerful boy fell silent the instant he laid eyes upon the painting. Wide eyes revealed silver irises that glistened like the stars as he ever so gently traced the tips of his fingers across the smooth texture of the canvas, completely transfixed. Midorima stood by the side, watching the boy intently as his heart palpitated with nerves.

“It’s amazing,” he whispered.

The words of awe he so often heard had never sounded this honest in his ears and his feather light touches were a charming gesture. Takao’s words should not have mattered, and yet they held a curious power that made his chest swell with pride. Unbeknownst to himself, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He liked this painting and wondered when he stopped liking his own work.

“You seem to use a lot of colours. They’re all in different shades,” Takao commented.

“Of course. Can’t you see,” he replied in a tone of admonishment.

“Yeah ... I can’t.” Takao’s eyes dimmed for a fraction of a second before lighting up again with its usual lively sparkle. “I’m colour blind. I can only see shades of grey,” he said nonchalantly, as though he were speaking about the weather.

Time came to a standstill.

_Monochromacy. Complete colour blindness._

It was a terrible affliction of the eye he was fleetingly aware of. Something rare that someone unknown in a faraway place would suffer from. He could never imagine meeting one in this life time. Especially not Takao. He was too normal, too carefree. Too _happy_.

The words colour blindness that could easily be associated with the word tragic was repelled by Takao’s effulgent smile. A world devoid of the disarray of colours was a sad world to live in.

_How could he still smile?_

“Oh …” Were the only words he was able to voice that day.

The next day, Takao did not visit.

Midorima sat in front of the painting of the sunset, his jaw clenched and his right hand gripped his thigh. Staring intently at the picture before him, his eyes reflected something entirely different. It had been three days since he last saw Takao.  Three days since he discovered Takao’s disability. Midorima had tried to imagine a world without colours. He could not. Not when his world revolved around the vibrancy of colours; deep, alluring burgundy, cool crystalline blue, warm yellow and a multitude of hues named by numbers.

Fragmented memories of that surprising day replayed in his mind like a broken record. With each day, he grew increasing restless. Midorima realized and wished for once; if only he had been more cautious with his words and conduct. It was feasible the boy had felt insulted by his lack of response and interpreted it in a negative way. If that were the case he would apologize.

He was about to, already on his feet with determination, ready to take the next confident step when realization hit him in the face. He did not know which course Takao was studying. Which faculty? Which building did he frequent? Which lectures did he attend? What was his phone number? He knew nothing of the boy that opened his eyes to the subtle beauty of the everyday.

Midorima sat down heavily with resignation. The only thing that connected them was this room. He had never seen the boy around campus and he rarely ventured into the cafeteria full of fractious discussions.

Lost in the realm of his despairing thoughts, the sound of slow footsteps that echoed along the deserted hallway did not capture his attention. He had kept the door slightly ajar to hear if anyone were to approach. Takao’s footsteps were normally fast and irregular as he had a certain skip to his steps. It was likely that his old professor had come to check on his progress.

A shadow stopped by the door and slid it open. In lieu of the hunched man with strands of grey hair was a young face with a head of inky black hair.

“Shin-chan,” Takao whined, his pitch unusually high. “Ah … I finally submitted my assignment. I thought I was going to die! I need sleep so badly right now.”

The boy trudged into the room and ungracefully flopped onto a chair, oblivious to Midorima’s mute shock.

“T-Takao? You’re here?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course. This is my favorite place to be in after all,” the boy replied as a matter of factly.

“Well … that is …yesterday and before that … you didn’t …” his sentence trailed off as he adjusted his spectacles. His cheeks warmed.

“Oh, I was in the library rushing my assignment. I even had to burn the midnight oil.”

As the words sunk in, Midorima felt his irritation wash over his initial embarrassment. His worries were unwarranted. The fool had merely frolicked until the last minute to complete his work. He heaved a sigh. How typical. 

“Hmm … was Shin-chan worried?” Takao asked with his signature Cheshire grin.

Fatigued by the mental exhaustion that came with his troubled musings, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and groaned inwardly.

“You fool.”

“Aw you don’t have to be such a tsundere about it!”

“Shut up Takao,” he barked without looking up.

Expecting laughter, he was slightly disturbed when silence was all that greeted him. On the swift thread of fear, his head whipped up to face Takao. The unreadable expression on the boy’s face morphed into a smile in the split of a second.

“Shin-chan is kind.”

Seeing the way his eyebrows knit together, Takao finally laughed.

“It’s not a big deal … even like this, everything is beautiful. Even if I can’t see colours, I can see everything is a different shade. The sky isn’t just one shade. There are a thousand shades I can’t even name. Like this … is fine.”

The image of the black haired boy seated by the window where a shaft of warm light illuminated one side of his face, emphasizing faint crinkles by the corner of his eyes was permanently etched into his mind. Takao was always smiling. Nothing else mattered.

 

Takao continued to visit every day and Midorima resumed his painting, making better progress than he had compared to the previous months. Their strange routine carried on unperturbed until a thought occurred to him.

A pristine white canvas was laid before him. Takao was in his usual spot by the window, flitting between wake and sleep in the balmy sunshine, the glossy magazine on his lap lay forgotten. Midorima got up from his seat and walked to the shelf stocked with art supplies. His picked up a freshly cleaned wooden palette and marveled at the familiar touch of its polished and smooth surface with his bare left hand. Sparing a glance at the boy by the window, he found Takao was awake and quietly reading his magazine. Although he did not look up, he knew those silver eyes were watching him. Picking up a palette knife, he selected several colours from the vast variety of paints. Once satisfied, he turned to face Takao.

“Here. Paint however you please.” He extended the palette towards the boy.

Silver eyes widened in unrestrained surprise. Wordlessly, the boy accepted his offer and sat in front of the blank canvas. After a moment of quizzical scrutiny at the palette of colours, he reached for a clean brush and began with light, tentative strokes of clumsy uncertainty.

Indigo barks blossomed with cerulean cherry blossoms. The green pathway dappled by scarlet pebbles lead to an ivory building. The yellow sky was filled with cotton candy pink clouds. And by the corner, barely visible but unmistakably a rainbow of black, grey and white. It was a world where the altercation of colours held no meaning. The world in which Takao lived. Where even a phenomenon as stunning as a rainbow was dulled.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” The boy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish manner.

“No … It’s beautiful,” he said sincerely.

A gentle smile formed upon his lips. Takao returned the smile with one of his own.

“Thank you, Shin-chan. For not shutting me out. Most people who find out tend to treat me differently and distance themselves. To be honest, that day when I first came here, I was actually running away from my classmates. The hushed voices, the discreet stares. I couldn’t take it. Not that I blame them … but I’m glad, because I met you here. ”

“Me too.”

He believed it was fate that brought Takao to him on that slow, pivotal afternoon.

 

Under the shroud of a starless night, he painted. Soft colours whispered a small tale to him. A large window frame. A boy with dark hair, headphones over his ears. Eyes downcast. Lips singing silently to the wind. A monochrome rainbow in the distance.

Midorima stood back to admire his work. It was the best portrait he had ever painted.

**Author's Note:**

> Glad to get this out of the way, I have too many plot bunnies to nurture lol  
> Many thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this owo


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